


Force of Nature

by LavenderJam



Category: His Dark Materials (TV), His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: Babies and Bathwater, Chaos Family, Childbirth, Complex Emotional Terrain, F/M, Marisa is not maternal, Pre-Canon, Star Stuff, The inaugural moments of, Thunderstorms, this one hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 09:41:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30019833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LavenderJam/pseuds/LavenderJam
Summary: “This is ridiculous,” she muttered. “Aspatteringof rain and the city shuts down. There must be at least one pilot bold enough to fly in this weather, and I’ll just have to find him – ” Then she broke off with a gasp, doubling over, one hand reaching out for something solid to grab. The only thing close enough was Asriel, and he lurched forwards, supporting her forearm with one hand and placing the other on her shoulder as she shuddered.His mouth went dry. “Marisa…”She was breathing heavily. “I’m quite alright,” she forced out. “A twinge, that’s all, no cause for concern. It’s been happening all day, you know, and it always passes after a minute or two…” She tailed off then, her hand coming to cover her mouth as she craned her neck up and met his gaze. His eyes were wide.“Oh,” she said, glancing back at her stomach. “Oh. Oh dear.”(With Marisa and Asriel sheltering in place due to a thunderstorm, Lyra decides to make her grand entrance into the world.)
Relationships: Lord Asriel & Lyra Belacqua, Lord Asriel/Marisa Coulter, Lyra Belacqua & Marisa Coulter
Comments: 26
Kudos: 52





	Force of Nature

**Author's Note:**

> *For those of you who are familiar with my writing, you might remember that I had a fic posted called _Circumstellar_ , telling the story of Lyra’s birth. It was one of the first stories I wrote for HDM and I hadn’t written fiction in a long time, so after a few months I decided to delete the story, because I didn’t think the characterisation was very good and I’m a much better writer now. However, I still loved the idea, so I decided to make a new, better version! The basic premise is the same – Marisa and Asriel delivering Lyra during a storm – but aside from that, it’s a whole new story. I hope you enjoy!*
> 
> “My child, my own child, conceived in sin and born in shame, but my child nonetheless, and you keep from me what I have every right to know!” – The Subtle Knife, Philip Pullman
> 
> “He watched the man lift the baby again and walk away along the grass between one bare flower bed and the next, holding the bundle high so he could whisper to her, rocking her gently, strolling along slowly in the brilliant moonlight. At one point he seemed to be showing the moon to Lyra, pointing up at it and holding her so she could see, or perhaps he was showing Lyra to the moon…” – La Belle Sauvage, Philip Pullman 
> 
> “One must still have chaos in oneself to give birth to a dancing star.” – Friedrich Nietzsche

Within seconds of walking out onto Turl Street from Jordan’s rich entryway, Asriel was pulling at his collar and grimacing. The air was thick as congealed soup, though still disconcertingly warm, and a cloud of flies were soon flitting around his head, chunky, buzzing horseflies and a few elegant lacewings. He batted them away with a grumble as he glanced up towards the sky.

It was late afternoon but the clouds didn’t seem to have received the note; charcoal-grey and straining under their own weight, Oxford appeared to be plunging into nightfall, the only enduring sign of the summer day the sunlight valiantly dousing the horizon in a rich, buttery glow. A gale was beginning to batter the air, and Stelmaria grizzled as the hot wind created snaking ruffles in her fur. A storm was coming.

The pair forged towards Broad Street at pace, where Asriel’s chauffeur had deposited him several hours prior. He scanned the bays, looking for the polished chrome of his Bentley, though before he could complete his sweep of the street Stelmaria had lashed her tail against his calf. “Weren’t you looking for a copy of that last week?” she purred.

She was staring at poster in the window of Blackwell’s bookshop, advertising a new shipment of Everett’s _Meditations on Quantum Theology_. He swiped a grateful thumb across her soft head and ducked into the establishment, a single drop of rain splashing his crown before he was safely ensconced inside.

New arrivals were displayed artfully in the centre of the main room, a great tower of embossed leather and pressed paper, and with the rain now hammering the cobblestones there was no need to rush his examination of the bookshop’s wares. He flicked through Everett’s tome and tucked the book beneath his arm, then began to peruse the rest of the endless shelves, alongside the other passers-by who’d decided to shelter from the rain in Blackwell’s. A man barged Asriel’s shoulder as he was thumbing through a slim volume about the formation of protostars, and it only took one low growl from Stelmaria for the man and his hare-dæmon to squeak and hurry away, offering profuse apologies that Asriel received with impassivity.

Once the man had shuffled off, Asriel turned back to his book. “This is interesting,” he murmured to Stelmaria, skimming the bibliography. He looked at the front cover. “Kalchik. Do I know that name?”

“No,” she replied, and he hummed. He continued to search the bookshelves, but he couldn’t find any more of the scholar’s publications. “Let’s ask Harold,” Stelmaria suggested, after he’d spent several minutes wending his way through the shelves with nothing to show for it.

Blackwell’s was expansive: it consisted of several floors, each of which provided access to many small side rooms, each of which was filled with intellectual treasures. As an undergraduate, Asriel had spent many hours rifling through each new shipment and backroom; within weeks of his matriculation, it had become clear that waiting for books to be available in the library was untenable, and that he preferred to purchase his own copies. And if the shop itself was a labyrinth, the bookseller was its congenial minotaur, a wizened, balding man named Harold who pottered between the rooms, rarely installed behind the desk at which the many signs suggested he could be found, who’d spent many hours sourcing rare texts for Asriel during his studies, to his great appreciation. Asriel nodded, spinning on his heel and looking for a shock of white hair, a velvet waistcoat, or perhaps the brass gleam of the man’s pocketwatch chain.

The ground floor now teeming with damp customers and no one else, Asriel headed towards the staircase. They’d only risen a few steps, the rough wood creaking under his broad frame, when Stelmaria stopped and sniffed the air. Her tail was suddenly erect, her whiskers twitching. “What is it?” Asriel said, but she’d dashed towards the next floor before he’d even finished the word, giving him no choice but follow with a frown, the faintest tug in his chest. 

He understood as soon as he reached the corridor, Stelmaria’s ears alert and swivelling as she loitered outside one of the side rooms. The sweet, musical lilt of her voice was a record he’d played a thousand times; he’d know those notes anywhere, and as he joined Stelmaria in the dark alcove he began to smell the familiar blooms of rose and neroli, and hear the impatient tap of her shoe against the worn floorboards. 

Her dulcet tone had a harsh edge, and each sharp word was accompanied by an apologetic plea: whoever she’d cornered in there was being berated. On another day, Asriel might have smirked, but today he had no space for such frivolities. She shouldn’t be in Oxford, tormenting a bookseller; she should have been in London.

He waited until Harold had hurried back down the stairs, his owl-dæmon covering her face with one shivering, tawny wing, before stepping into the room and folding his arms. “What are you doing here?”

Marisa was standing by the window, sneering at the storm, one hand resting on the top of her gargantuan stomach and the other placed on her hip. Her dress was steel-blue and tight, far too tight to be comfortable, and her shoes were dyed snakeskin to match, the points of her stiletto heels sharp and vicious. At the sound of his voice, she jumped, her curls bouncing, though it took her barely a second to recover, a delicate pink flush returning to the high points of her cheekbones. They’d long stopped commenting on their propensity to stumble upon each other in the unlikeliest of places at the unlikeliest of times: a simple call into the void was usually enough for Asriel’s desires to appear before him, and given that his most earnest wish in recent times was glimpses and grasps of his lover, their paths crossed with a preternatural frequency. It happened so often now that a single beat was all she needed for the surprise to slough away.

“I’m _attempting_ to collect the order of the _Astronomia Nova_ that I placed _weeks_ ago and appears to have been misplaced,” Marisa said tartly, her dæmon leaping down from the windowsill and greeting Stelmaria while she spoke, his little hands tugging on her soft ears as they pressed their faces together. “I’d have thought that was obvious from my tone.”

“All that is obvious to _me_ is your denial about your current physical capacity,” he said, and she glared at him. He glared right back. The last time he’d seen her, a fortnight ago, he’d been amazed she could still stand upright. For her to be swanning around Oxford now was farcical. “Don’t tell me you travelled from London to fetch a _book._ ”

“I’m attempting to fetch several books, I’ll have you know,” she said. “But no, I came for an alumni event at St Sophia’s that I deemed it prudent to attend. My zeppelin isn’t until seven – ”

“You _flew?”_

“ – And I had some time to kill before boarding began, so I decided to pop in here and see what the issue was with my delivery. I should have known that you’d appear and spoil my fun.”

He shook his head. “You should be at home.”

“How predictable of you,” she said. “I suppose you’d have me drop my intellectual work altogether now that I’m on the cusp of having more _important_ activities to occupy my time…” 

“Don’t be a fool,” he growled. She made his point for him by grimacing then, her grip on her belly tightening. He cocked his head, eyebrows raised.

“I’m perfectly fine,” she said, though she placed one hand on the wall to steady herself. “The hazard of being on one’s feet all day, that’s all.”

“If only there was a compelling reason for you _not_ to be on your feet at this present moment,” he said. “Or to wear a less ludicrous pair of shoes, at the very least.”

“I will not put my life on hold to wait for this child to deign to enter the world. I simply refuse. I thought _you_ of all people would understand that.”

He scrubbed his hands over his face. “Marisa – ”

“Mrs Coulter, I can only offer you my sincerest apologies,” Harold said as he bustled back into the room, his dæmon installed on his shoulder and glancing warily at the monkey, who’d leapt away from Stelmaria at the first sound of the bookseller’s voice. He prowled back to Marisa and fixed the owl with a baleful stare. “It appears that your order has been held in Roma, for reasons we are not privy too. Given the nature of the texts, delays of this kind must be expected, I’m afraid.” He blinked at the sight of the room’s other occupant. “Lord Asriel!”

“Hello, Harold,” he said, shaking the man’s hand. Marisa rolled her eyes.

“A sight for sore eyes. What brings you here today, my lord?”

He held up the copy of Everett’s new book. “I spied this in your window just as I was leaving Jordan. It’s been impossible to track down in London. I should have known that you’d have sourced some copies.”

Harold nodded gratefully. “Just last night I was considering alerting you to the shipment! But – ”

“Do let me know when my order arrives,” Marisa cut in like a knife, slinging her bag to her shoulder and heading towards the door. Both men stepped back to give her space, and the sight only made her expression colder. “I’ll expect a refund on the shipping costs, of course, given all the trouble it’s been to collect such a simple purchase. You’d agree that’s fair, wouldn’t you, Harold?” she said sweetly, pouncing on his name, another weapon for her arsenal.

“Oh,” Harold said, his smile fading as he looked from Asriel to Marisa. “Oh, yes, I suppose. Of course.” He paused. “The shipping costs were quite expensive, though – ”

“Yes, that is a shame,” she said. “Perhaps next time my purchase will arrive as expected, and neither of us will be inconvenienced. Now, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen: I have a zeppelin to catch.”

In the past, Asriel might have abandoned the book and chased after her; today, he knew he had the luxury of time. “Here,” he said, selecting a few crisp notes from his wallet and handing them to the bookseller before tucking the textbook beneath his arm. Then he paused. “And take these,” he added, giving the man another wad of cash. “For the shipping refund.” He winked, and Harold gave him a grateful nod. Then he started down the stairs to intercept his lover before she barrelled into the rain.

As he’d expected, impeded by her enormous, unwieldy stomach, she was barely halfway down the staircase by the time he appeared behind her. “You know the zeppelins won’t be running tonight,” he said, quietly, the main shop floor almost in earshot.

“Nonsense. It’s mere drizzle.” At that moment, a crack of lightning illuminated the stairway like a camera flash, and booms of thunder followed seconds later. Another customer gasped, and a nervous titter rolled around the shop floor, Blackwell’s bustling now as bedraggled pedestrians sheltered from the deluge.

“My car’s just outside,” he said, grabbing her arm before she melted into the melee and conversation became impossible.

“Excellent. You can drive me to the aërodock.”

He sighed. “You know that my estate’s not far from here – ”

“My _husband_ is flying back from Geneva tonight,” she interrupted. His lip twitched, a stifled sneer. “So returning to London is my only option, I’m afraid.”

“Marisa, no craft is touching down on Brytish soil until this storm relents,” he said. “He shan’t return until tomorrow. And – ”

He was distracted by her wince, and the way her hand flew to her abdomen. “Are you alright?”

“I’m _fine_ ,” she snapped. Another patron appeared at the bottom of the stairs then, face glistening and hair dripping, and Marisa’s breath hitched as the stranger caught a glimpse of them muttering together. “Excuse me,” she said, slipping past the other man as best she could. Asriel let him pass and then darted after her, the small silver bell that hung above the door ringing twice in quick succession as they both strode out into the roiling twilight.

The rain was warm and the gale was whipping the water around enough that protecting any part of themselves from the spray was impossible. They’d had snow in May, hail like golf balls just the other week and now this; what aberrant weather they’d be subjected to next was anyone’s guess. The sole benefit of the storm was that the gleaming streets were clear, and the few pedestrians who remained were too busy shielding their eyes from the torrent to notice a heavily pregnant woman clambering into a sleek Bentley with a man sporting a bare ring finger.

“Ma’am,” Clarke said as Marisa settled on the soft cream leather, shaking the drops from her curls. “Sir,” he added, nodding at Asriel in the rear-view mirror. 

“Take us home, Clarke,” Asriel said, running his hand through Stelmaria’s damp fur, the snow leopard settled between his knees. 

“No. To the aërodock, please, Clarke,” Marisa said.

The chauffeur glanced at Asriel. Marisa huffed. “Fine,” she said brightly, opening the door and placing one heel on the damp asphalt, grimy rain spattering her sheer stockings. Her dæmon hung his head, but made a move to follow nonetheless.

“Alright,” Asriel growled. “We’ll go via the aërodock. You can see that the zeppelins are cancelled, and then we can drop the ridiculous pretence that you aren’t going to spend the night with me.”

Marisa shut the door with a smooth thud and Clarke booted up the engine. They drove to Jericho in silence, both of them watching the rain hammer down through the tinted glass, though Stelmaria’s gaze was trained on Marisa and the monkey kept peeking at Asriel, a fond glint in his eye. Each time they drove over a bump Marisa winced, one palm pressed flat against her abdomen, and Stelmaria’s whiskers twitched.

Marisa leapt from the car as soon as they arrived at the station, several great silver crafts swaying in the wind, their restraints flapping and jangling and creating a terrible racket. If it had been anyone else, Asriel would simply have waited in the car, but he didn’t trust Marisa not to flee on foot once he’d been proven right and he had no interest in chasing after her. By the time he reached her side, she was staring at the schedule board under the aërodock’s awning and scowling, the tiles all flipped to _cancelled_ and the ticket booth blocked by a sheet of corrugated steel.

“Right,” he said, placing a hand on her lower back, which she shrugged off at once. “Shall we?”

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered. “A _spattering_ of rain and the city shuts down. There must be at least one pilot bold enough to fly in this weather, and I’ll just have to find him – ” Then she broke off with a gasp, doubling over, one hand reaching out for something solid to grab. The only thing close enough was Asriel, and he lurched forwards, supporting her forearm with one hand and placing the other on her shoulder as she shuddered.

His mouth went dry. “Marisa…”

She was breathing heavily. “I’m quite alright,” she forced out. “A twinge, that’s all, no cause for concern. It’s been happening all day, you know, and it always passes after a minute or two…” She tailed off then, her hand coming to cover her mouth as she craned her neck up and met his gaze. His eyes were wide.

“Oh,” she said, glancing back at her stomach. “Oh. Oh dear.”

There was a great crack of lightning, and then the rain began to pound against the awning with more gusto, a million tiny base drums at the crescendo of a symphony. “Get in the car,” Asriel growled, and for once, she complied. 

“Take us to the Radcliffe,” Asriel said to his driver as soon as the doors were closed.

“Absolutely not!” Marisa said. She slammed the dividing panel shut and lowered her voice so that Clarke couldn’t hear. “I cannot go to a hospital, Asriel. You understand that, don’t you? The fewer people who see the thing, the more options we have. If it’s born in the Radcliffe, there’ll be a birth certificate right then and there, there’ll be witnesses… We can’t risk it. You _know_ that.”

Stelmaria hummed, her tail rigid. She was agitated. “Then what do you suggest?” Asriel said, stroking his dæmon’s head.

“Plenty of women give birth at home. It’ll only take – a few hours to drive back to London – ” She moaned slightly, then blew out a few short, shallow breaths. Her dæmon whined. “Or your estate, I suppose. You said yourself it’s nearby…”

He ran a hand through his damp hair. The manor was clean and spacious and secluded, and he could call for a doctor as soon as they’d arrived and settled her. Stelmaria gave him a nod. “Alright. Alright.” He slid open the panel. “Clarke, take us to the manor. Drive carefully.”

The storm battered the car as the limestone brickwork and gleaming cobblestones faded away and lush green fields and slim country roads took their place, the sky a mess of shadowy smears and the diffuse sun’s golden tendrils. The wind lashed against the windows, the wipers could hardly cope with the endless wet cascade, and the wheels threw mud and rocks against the lustrous chrome, Asriel grimacing each time a pebble struck the windscreen. He found himself grimacing every time Marisa winced, too; she couldn’t keep still, running her hands through her hair, scrubbing them across her face, rubbing them across her stomach, her moans poorly stifled, her breaths quick and fast. Her dæmon was chittering and trembling in the footwell, and Asriel could feel how much Stelmaria was straining to reach for him, though the topography of the car made that impossible. He tried once to take Marisa’s hand, but she shook him off with such disdain that he didn’t make a second attempt. He simply glanced between her and the whipping weather, the storm inside and the storm outside, not sure with which tempest he’d rather take his chances.

The house was quiet and dark when they arrived: between last winter’s Northern expedition and a busy spring in London – analysing his samples, working on his new papers and chasing after his obstinate, pregnant lover – he’d hardly visited the manor since the leaves had turned last autumn. Even now, he’d only planned to be in Oxford for the day, leaving Thorold back in Chelsea and sending no message to revive the estate and have his full staff waiting to receive him. The permanent roster of maids and gardeners kept the place in good working order, though, and Asriel was pleased find clean, crisp sheets on his bed and his bedroom light and airy after he’d shepherded Marisa inside and up the ornate staircase, the Bentley’s motor still running in the circular driveway, Clarke waiting for the signal to drive back towards the city and fetch a physician.

She perched on the bed, scrunching the counterpane in her hands, the velvet shimmering like a sea of copper pennies, and kicked off her shoes with a groan. The monkey was watching from the floor as his woman bit her lip and bowed her head, his own tiny black fists pressed against his face. Stelmaria padded over, free from the confines of the car, and began to lick his fur. The rain outside was deafening.

Asriel knelt down beside Marisa, placing a hand on her knee. “Will this do?” he said, with a wry smile. Despite the undulating pain she was in, her eyes had widened at the sight of the gilt-framed portraits decorating the walls, the glossy mahogany banisters, the sumptuous Persian carpets that lined the oak-panelled corridors, thousands of silk strands woven together to create a masterpiece. He had another splayed across the floor of his bedroom, cream and scarlet and indigo threads, which her stockinged toes were caressing right now.

She ran a hand through his hair, her lip twitching, the ghost of a smirk. “I was hoping for grander, but I suppose this will suffice.”

“Good.” He got to his feet and started towards the door. “You stay here and rest. I’m going to call the doctor.”

He heard the rustle of the bedspread and the thump of her feet on the floor, but before he’d had a chance to turn he felt himself being garrotted by his own shirt, Marisa pulling on the back of his collar and choking him. He stumbled backwards, spluttering, knocking her arm away with a growl and rounding on her. On another day, he might have stalked forwards and taken her by the wrists, retaliation the most effective analgesic for the ache in his neck. But the sight of her swollen stomach made him pause, and she took that opportunity to lurch towards him again, grabbing his shirtfront in both hands and pulling him to her. Her eyes were blazing, and their faces were so close together that her saliva flecked his lips. “Don’t you _dare_ ,” she said.

He should have known that even labour wasn’t enough to prevent her from throttling him. He glared at her and ripped her hands from his lapels. “Of course I’m going to fetch a doctor. What did you think I was going to do?”

She lunged for him again and he stepped deftly backwards. Still not completely acclimatised to her new centre of gravity, she almost toppled over, and he did nothing to intervene: if she wanted to choke him, she’d have to earn it. She cried out, supporting herself by clinging to the bedpost, oblivious to the way Stelmaria had shot towards her. “Did I not make myself clear in the car? No one can know that I’m here. Not a soul. It’s not safe.”

He rubbed the tender skin of his throat. “What’s not safe is you delivering a child without medical assistance. I agreed not to take you to the hospital. I was _not_ agreeing to watch you thrash around unaided and simply hope that both you and the child survive.”

She pressed her forehead to the bedpost. “People have been giving birth in locations far less plush than this for millennia.”

“And many of them perished doing so.”

She sighed. “Asriel, there is no plausible explanation for why I’m here with you.”

“We’re known acquaintances. You were stranded in Oxford due to the storm, I came to your aid, and only once we’d arrived back here did your predicament reveal itself.”

“And what will happen if the child that appears is your spitting image? I assume even the most sheltered practitioner would put two and two together. What good is it if I survive childbirth only for the doctor to sign our death warrants after the birth certificate?”

“They _won’t_ – ”

“You don’t know that!” she said, then bent over and cried out. Another bolt of lightning illumed the storm clouds. After taking a few shallow breaths, she continued, her voice strained: “To say nothing of Edward’s reaction when he discovers the circumstances under which the child was born. Asriel, you can’t – you _can’t_ – ” She was shaking now, one hand pressed over her mouth.

He stared at her, wanting to go to her, but finding his feet rooted to the spot. “I will not be careless with your life,” he said quietly.

She managed a weak chuckle. “There’s nothing more careless than exposing ourselves to a stranger. You might as well load a pistol and put it in Edward’s hands. Do you really not see that?” He said nothing, though his eyes softened as she lowered herself to the ground and leaned against the bed, bracing against the bedpost on her knees. Stelmaria walked over and rubbed her soft cheek against Marisa’s shoulder. “I’m young, and healthy, and we’re capable. It’s far safer for us to do this alone than for someone to see us together with the child. I can’t even _bear_ the thought…” 

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “The _second_ something is wrong, I’m sending Clarke to the surgery. And we’ll simply have to deal with the consequences.”

She nodded. “Fine.” She glanced up at him, her cheeks flushed. “I have no intention of giving my life so that the child can live. I won’t let myself die here – in childbirth, no less, surely the most predictable way for a young woman to expire. You know that, don’t you?”

“I do,” he said, after a beat.

“Wonderful. Alright. Now, we can – _oh_.” She leaned forward again, bracing against the bed, panting. Stelmaria’s eyes were soft. She muttered something to Marisa, quietly enough that Asriel couldn’t hear, and his lover nodded.

Stelmaria slunk over to him, butting her head against his knee. “Run a bath,” she said. “Deep, and not too hot.”

The bathroom’s windows were west-facing, and the thick, stormy sunbeams dripped into the room like butterscotch as the sun meandered towards the horizon, giving the cool marble tiles and the bathtub’s immaculate porcelain a warm sheen. As the bath filled with tepid water and steam began to mist the glass, Asriel unbuttoned Marisa’s dress, unclasped her brassiere and noted her instructions.

“Fetch towels, as many as you can, big and small; I’ll need water, and if you have something sweet to go in it – cordial, I suppose – that would be marvellous, and scissors, and carbolic acid…” She continued, listing a veritable cornucopia of items, enough that Asriel wondered if she was birthing a baby or preparing for a prolonged session in the laboratory. 

By the time she’d finished, the tub was almost full. “Towels, water, scissors, cauchuc bands. Alright.”

“Don’t forget the rest!” she called out as he left the room with Stelmaria.

It soon became clear that his knowledge of his own estate did not include such basic items as towels and cordial, and he spent an embarrassing number of minutes fetching towels from several bathrooms in lieu of searching for the elusive linen closet. Then he dismissed Clarke, who’d been dutifully waiting outside all this time, though he instructed the man to settle in one of the servants’ cottages and remain alert should his services be required at short notice. Then Asriel rifled through his workshop in search of scissors, vials of antiseptic ointment and the cauchuc bands that’s purpose continued to elude him, before fetching two tall water glasses from the kitchen and grabbing a thin, emerald-green glass bottle, containing a sickly syrup that had to be elderflower. He was laden with items when he returned, and he dumped them on the bed with a huff before striding over to the bathroom door and turning the handle.

There was a thunk, but the door didn’t move. It was locked.

Her endless requests became clear to him. “Very amusing, Marisa,” he said, pressing a fist to his forehead. “Open the door.”

“I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you.” She sounded breathless.

“Marisa,” he growled. Stelmaria let out a whine. “You shouldn’t be alone. I’ll break this door down if you won’t let me in.”

“Seems a shame to destroy a perfectly good door, though, doesn’t it?” she said. “And I’m sure you have better things to be doing with your time.”

“Naturally. Alas, you’ve decided to spend the evening giving birth in my bathroom, and so my work will have to wait until tomorrow. Open the fucking door, my love.”

“No,” she said, with a hard edge to her voice. “I want to be alone, Asriel. That can’t really come as a surprise to you.”

“Break it down,” Stelmaria murmured.

He sighed, placed a broad, flat palm on the door, and then stalked over to the bed and settled himself atop the duvet. Stelmaria looked apoplectic. “ _Asriel_.”

“I am not going to _beg_ to be involved, nor force my way in there.”

She shook her head. “We should be with her.”

“I won’t go where I’m not wanted,” he said petulantly, leaning back against the pillows and closing his eyes.

Stelmaria rolled her eyes at him and started to pace before the bathroom door, her ears twitching every time Marisa’s moans reverberated through the wood. Asriel picked up the book he’d left on the bedside table several seasons ago and attempted to thumb through it, though even he couldn’t focus on anbaromagnetic induction methods while his lover was labouring next door. He closed his eyes and listened to the rain pounding down outside, to the great, whooshing wind ruffling the trees that dotted his land, to the ragged groans coming from the adjacent room, which somehow sounded louder to him than the thunder. He listened to this odd sonata and tried not to think about how he, too, had been born in this house all those years ago. Stelmaria continued to stalk the small patch of ground before the door, almost turning in a circle, as if she was powered by a broken clockwork.

An hour or so passed, in which Marisa’s moans became louder and stronger, and then a sudden sharp cry pierced the air, belying real, vivid pain. He leapt from the bed as Stelmaria began to gnaw at the doorknob with her teeth, and he was just preparing to splinter the doorframe and barge his way in when the lock clicked open. He opened the door to find the monkey perched there, shivering, his eyes wide and tormented. Marisa’s neck snapped up as her dæmon pressed himself into Stelmaria’s soft breast. “You little _bastard_ ,” she spat, chest heaving.

She was in the water but draped over the side of the tub, one arm dangling towards the ground so that she could peek at the face of her delicate silver watch. She’d removed her makeup and her jewellery, her face coated only with a light sheen of sweat and her neck and ears and fingers bare, and she’d tied her hair up with a ribbon. Her clothes had been abandoned in a pile beside the bath.

Asriel rolled up his sleeves and walked over to her, smoothing his hand over her hair. She batted him away. “If you’re going to insist on being here, then it’s in your interest to keep your mouth shut, alright?” she said, glancing at her watch and bracing herself against the side of the bath. The sounds she made were rough and ragged, huffing and groaning as the contraction swept through her body, and he did his best not to disturb her as he piled the towels on a chair, poured her a glass of cordial, wrung out a damp flannel for her forehead and laid out the scissors and the bands and ointments by the sink. Then he sunk down onto the tile, the marble cool against his legs, even through his slacks, and felt his stomach clench at the mere sight of her sweat-soaked brow, her pained expression, her flushed and trembling chest. 

His face was impassive as he watched her labour, though Stelmaria settled herself right beside the tub, within arm’s reach should Marisa want her. The monkey was perched on the lip of the bath, one hand on the glinting silver taps for balance, and Asriel could see that he was shivering.

For the minutes between her contractions, Marisa was remarkably composed, he thought: she’d have a drink, check her watch, let out some of the cooling bathwater and replace it with a stream from the hot tap, but then the pain would grip her again and she’d start keening and rasping in the most base of fashions, gripping the side of the tub until her knuckles matched the porcelain, tears filling her eyes and sliding down her cheeks. He winced, clasping his hands between his thighs to stop himself from reaching out for her.

The next contraction was longer and stronger, and the noise she produced was so unlike anything he’d heard from her mouth before that he couldn’t help but ask: “Are you certain this is normal?”

She glared at him, panting. “As far as I can tell, I’m six centimetres dilated, which means my contractions should be three minutes apart and forty-five seconds long, more or less. That one was just under a minute, but the interval is still as expected. Everything is progressing perfectly.”

He blinked. “I see.” She wiped the sweat from her brow, and he cocked his head. “Did you study for childbirth?”

“Of course I did,” she said, sipping her cordial. “Success is all in the preparation. We both know that.”

“I adore you,” he said, with a smile. She chucked a bar of soap at him, but not before he’d seen her smirk.

They said little as the next hour passed, though Stelmaria offered Marisa the occasional word of encouragement, and Marisa would dust her fingertips across the snow leopard’s crown in response, a gentle show of gratitude. He did his best to busy himself with mild, useful tasks, and if not to watch her silently, but as she was gripped by a particularly savage cramp and she gave a harsh, guttural cry, he could do nothing but fall to his knees by her side and offer her his hand. The last time he’d done this, she’d swatted him away, but now she grasped his fingers so tightly he thought his knuckles might bruise. Even after the wave of pain had passed, it was another minute before she let go.

“You shouldn’t see me like this,” she said, her voice rough and choked. “It’s so _vulgar_.”

He glanced down at her body, bare and sinuous and gleaming. “No, it isn’t,” he said.

“Don’t _lie_ to me,” she said. “It’s vile. It’s so _base_. Look at me – just _look_ at what I’ve been reduced to. I sound like an animal.”

“I don’t care.”

“ _I_ do.” She keened forward, gasping, already gripped by the next wave. “Oh, God.”

Her contractions were soon coming hard and fast, giving her barely thirty seconds to recover before she was gripped with agony once more, crying and groaning and rasping, unable to speak. The sun had set hours ago and the night was black as pitch, the clouds obscuring the stars and the moon. He’d switched on the anbaric lights, and in the cold, white light he could see that her skin was red and mottled, and her hairline was soaked in sweat. “Too – hot – ” she forced out. “I’m too hot, Asriel.”

He opened the window to let in a cool breeze, but the sound of the gale and the rattled glass and the whirling rain soon had him slamming it shut again. Instead, he cleaned his cup and poured some water over her head, and though she started to protest, as soon as the cool liquid had doused her scalp she gave a great sigh of relief. “Again,” she said, and he happily obliged. Stelmaria placed her paws on the rim of the tub so that the monkey could tangle his fingers in her fur. 

As the night deepened and Marisa’s pain became somehow more searing, she began to accept the support she’d rejected so sourly hours before: she let Asriel take her hand, wipe her brow, soothe her with cool water, place his hands against her lower back as she braced herself against the bathtub and inched their child closer to the world. She wept, she raged, she groaned, she cursed him over and over again, though when he tried to pull away for even a moment, to refill her glass or fetch a fresh cloth, she grabbed his shirtfront in her fist and refused to let him go. His knees smarted from hours knelt on the tile, but even so, he was surprisingly glad to stay put.

He hadn’t expected childbirth to be a particularly interesting experience to witness. Physiologically impressive, to be sure, but still… common. Unremarkable. Reproduction was something almost anyone could partake in, after all, if they so desired. He favoured the novel, the interesting, the unexpected. He was never happier than when he could feel his synapses sparking and swelling, creating new connections, new thoughts, new theories, finding new frontiers of the possible and shattering them until the lines of truth itself had been redrawn. Bringing a child into the world was the opposite of those aims: mundane and simple, the end result already clear, the experiment repeated countless millions of times before. It should have been unexciting, the drama superficial.

And yet, he found himself mesmerised. He could hardly tear his eyes from his lover, spellbound by her command of her labour, even though it was as new an experience for her as it was for him, directing him and herself and their dæmons as she weathered this seemingly ceaseless storm, as she gritted her teeth and bore the relentless pain of an activity that was, he now understood, terrifying and brutal as much as it was astonishing. He supposed it was after midnight when she collapsed against him, wretched and winded, but determined nonetheless, blessed with a long enough respite to open her eyes and catch her breath. She lay back in the water, her neck supported by his arm, and then she lolled her head towards him, so their faces were only mere centimetres apart. He grasped her cheek and kissed her fiercely. 

After a moment, she pulled away and pressed her forehead to his, her breath hot against his lips, and he found his mouth opening of its own volition, not sure what sentimentality was about to barrel out and embarrass him. Fortunately, she was panting and moaning again before he had a chance to make a fool of himself, but the intensity with which he watched her didn’t fade, and the fear that something mortifying was building on his tongue didn’t wane, each new shock of pain another swing of the hypnotic pendulum.

Given that time soon lost all meaning as her labour oozed onwards, he was surprised to find it clear as day when the child’s actual arrival became imminent. “Oh, God,” Marisa said, grasping his shoulder with one hand and the edge of the bath with the other, straining, squeezing. “Oh, God, it’s coming. Now. Now. Oh!”

Without thinking, he peered between her legs, and blinked at the sight of a dark shock of hair emerging from her body. “So it is,” he said. “Right. Right. Alright.”

She was howling now, drowning out the gale with ease, and with each push more of the baby appeared in the water: greasy, dark hair, then a slick, wrinkled forehead, then two closed eyes and a nose and a mouth, a whole perfect face, and then Marisa gave one more agonising cry, and the baby slipped into the water, and the bath turned a weak shade of crimson. As if by instinct, Marisa plunged her hands beneath the surface and grabbed the child, and then the wrinkled, purple creature was lying on her chest, and an almighty cry pierced the air; harsh, staccato wails, a fabulous sign of vitality. Relief filled his chest, the grating sound of an infant’s cry never more welcome, and he looked down at Marisa and the child and the bloody bathwater and laughed, one hand reaching out to plant itself in Stelmaria’s fur, the leopard’s eyes wide, her jaw hanging open. The monkey was perched by Marisa’s head on the lip of the tub, staring blankly at the baby. He was trembling.

For a minute, then two, then three, nothing happened. Marisa lay there, clutching the squalling child, and Asriel knelt beside them, staring, his hands gripping the cool rim of the bathtub. The child continued to squirm on her chest, leaving bloody smears on her skin, and eventually Asriel’s gaze slid to the pulsing, silver-blue cord that still tied them to each other. “We need to cut that,” he said, and Marisa nodded numbly.

He was grateful that she’d made him gather the necessary supplies hours ago. He disinfected the scissors, prepared two lengths of string to act as tourniquets, and grabbed a cauchuc band for the stub that remained with the solemn competence of a battleground medic. By the time he turned around, tools in hand, the baby’s dæmon had coalesced, and the sight of a tiny, mewling leopard cub lying on Marisa’s chest, sweet and bold and golden, knocked the breath right out of his lungs. He dropped the scissors on the countertop and grabbed the marble. Marisa was staring between the baby and the dæmon, open-mouthed. Tears were streaming down her face, and she was shaking.

He’d seen her cry before, of course. Perfect crystals tears deployed like exquisite biochemical weapons, and perhaps a genuine sob or two, after he’d slung a particularly gutting insult in her direction, or as she stood at the threshold of the doorway she was about to walk through, leaving him behind, unsure of when they’d next be able to see each other, let alone lie in each other’s arms and stroke the other’s skin and breathe in the scent that can’t be bought, only evoked, by deft hands and tongues and hips. But he’d never seen her weep like this: her face was red, sobs were wracking her chest, her eyes were closed and quivering. She was clutching the baby so tightly he thought it must be hurting the thing, her manicured nails digging into tiny thighs and shoulder blades. He crouched beside her quietly, tying two strands a little way down the cord, and then cutting neatly between them, severing child from mother. He was surprised by the resistance that met the slick edges of the blade.

Then he set about winding the band around the stump that remained, moving the baby slightly to ease his access to its belly. At the sight of the baby’s full form, he blinked. “It’s a girl.”

Marisa let out a sob. She was shaking violently, and when he dipped his fingers into the water, he realised it had gone cold. They both needed to be covered. He fetched a clean, dry towel from the chair and then let his hands hover over the baby, whose cries had quietened down to snuffles, tiny fingers and little rosy mouth nudging at Marisa’s breast. “Let me take her,” he said, and she let go of the child as if the girl’s blotchy skin was suddenly made of hot coals.

He gathered the baby in the towel, watching carefully as the monkey placed the girl’s dæmon onto her tiny chest, and then the leopard disappeared, flashing into a pretty speckled starling chick. It had been a long time since he’d seen a dæmon change like that; he rarely spent time with children, if at all, and had forgotten the excitement of the endless array of forms a dæmon might take, each child’s fluid soul brimming with possibility. He grinned.

Stelmaria put her forepaws on his waist, and he lowered the baby so that his dæmon could whisper to hers. Then he wetted a cloth with warm water and cleaned the blood and vernix from the girl, her skin as soft as the underside of a rose petal, each tiny toe and finger tipped with a perfect little nail. Her head fit in his palm; her body was barely as long as his forearm. He shook his head, disbelieving, though the baby’s weight was firm and solid in his grip. 

Stelmaria was whispering to Marisa, who was still shaking in the water, curled around herself. Asriel left his dæmon to watch her and then padded into the bedroom, baby in his arms, searching for somewhere to put her down. He had no bassinet, no perambulator, nothing at all that might befit an infant. His first thought had been a trunk of some kind, but he soon realised that he didn’t know where the clean luggage was kept in this house, and the old leather cases in the workshop were too filthy for his child. He blinked as the thought entered his head. _His child._

He laid the baby on the bed and grabbed a drawer from his dresser, dumping the spare blankets onto the floor before using them to line the wood, making a bed of soft cashmere and wool. He saved one for the girl herself, wrapping her in a soft, green shroud, the colour of moss after rain, and placed her gently in the drawer, which was flush against the bedframe’s baseboard. He stared down at her, and swallowed.

After the baby had settled, he returned to the bathroom, to Marisa. The monkey was fussing with a crumpled cloth bundle on the floor, she was still curled around herself in the bath and Stelmaria was still muttering in her ear.

He frowned at the monkey as he opened a towel for his lover and Marisa followed his gaze, looking pained. “The afterbirth,” she said hoarsely, the first time she’d spoken since the girl had been born. “It needs to be disposed of. It’s disgusting, I’m sorry – I’m sorry – ” She pressed her hand to her mouth.

“It’s alright,” he said. “I can do that. It’s fine.”

“No, no, it isn’t. Asriel, it isn’t alright…” She was shaking.

“It is. It’s fine. You need to warm up and rest.” He held out his hand. “Come here.”

He took her hands and helped her onto the tile, then draped the towel over her shoulders. There was blood already running down her leg, and she sniffed. “I need – something of yours to wear – ”

“Right. Yes.” He fetched a pair of his undergarments and helped her into them, then passed her a fresh hand towel without comment, which she placed between her legs with a wince. He expected her to excoriate him as he started to pat her dry, wiping the pink drops from her tender, swollen stomach and cleaning the blood from her legs, but she just stood there, one hand on his shoulder for balance, breathing shakily, eyes glassy. He draped his robe around her, and only when he moved to knot the tie did she look at him. She slapped his hands away and tied a neat bow.

“I’m not _infirm_ ,” she said, and her sullen tone was a welcome relief.

She eyed the baby warily as Asriel settled her in the bed, muted snuffles coming from the drawer at her feet. He glanced at the clock: it was just after one in the morning. 

“I’m going to fetch us something to eat,” he said. “And something warm to drink.”

She nodded, wiping her eyes. Her dæmon sat beside her, shoulders hunched, turned away from them all. Asriel felt briefly faint, but the familiar warmth of Stelmaria’s head beneath his hand soon put a stop to that.

The cold pantry was bare and stark, but he found a parcel of cured meats, a round of hard cheddar and a soft package of sweet goat’s cheese, an ornate blue and gold tin stuffed with water biscuits and a little jar of rich solid honey. He shoved his spoils on a tray and placed the kettle on the stovetop, pouring himself a glass of cheap red wine while the water boiled, the sort used for cooking, hardly better than vinegar. He downed the chalky drink in a single gulp before brewing two mugs of peppermint tea. He was just climbing the stairs when a distraught wail appeared in the air, piercing the thick wood of the bedroom door and spooling down towards him. He entered the room a minute later, wincing at the screams, and found Marisa just staring at the girl, tears brimming in her eyes. Her dæmon had his hands over his ears.

He placed the tray on the dresser and picked up the baby, Marisa shaking her head lightly as the screams quietened, as if emerging from a trance. The girl was still squirming, her mouth making small sucking motions. Asriel blinked. “She needs milk,” he said, holding her out to Marisa.

Her eyes widened. “What?”

“She’s a baby, Marisa. She needs to be fed. And I’m afraid you’re only one who has the equipment for it.”

“You said you’d source a nurse.”

He stared at her. “Yes. Well. I hadn’t got around to that yet, and if you hadn’t noticed, it’s the middle of the night and there’s no one here but us. You’ll have to do it.”

She looked like she wanted to smack him or cry (or in all likelihood, both), but she must have known that he was right, because she took the baby from him and settled the girl on her chest regardless. At first, she angled herself away from him so that he couldn’t watch, but after a minute the muted fussing ceased and Marisa’s breath hitched, and then she lay back against the pillows, the curve of her breast catching the soft naphtha light, the baby’s tiny hand grasping at her skin. She sniffed, her eyes watering, and refused to meet his eyes.

After changing into a pair of pajamas, Asriel brought the tray to the bed and held the mug to Marisa’s lips, so that she could have some tea while the baby nursed. Then he made his way through the cured sausage and piled the crackers with cheese, alternating a bite for each of them until she’d had her fill, and continuing to eat alone long after she’d shaken her head and pushed his outstretched hand away. Forty minutes later, the wax papers bare, the tin empty and the baby placed back in her makeshift cot, sated and quiet, Marisa rolled away from him and curled into herself. He extinguished the lamp and stared at the back of her head in the darkness, her curls shivering and shoulders shaking.

He knew that he should speak, that he should tell her that he loved her, perhaps even that he was proud of her, but he also knew that a confession of love would feel tawdry, the air thick with exhaustion and hormones, and they both knew that it was pitiful to admire someone for simply giving into the most base of their instincts. In the end, he did what they always did when something between them was unutterable: he took her in his arms and buried his face in her hair, engulfing her with his body. At first, she was rigid as a board, and tried to squirm away from him, but he simply tightened his grip and muttered, “Stop, my love. Stop.” She relented with a sob, and then they lay there together, listening to the lingering patter of the rainstorm and the shallow breaths of the baby at their feet, until they each managed to drift off to sleep.

Typically, after such a draining evening, he’d have slept late into the afternoon, rousing to a lunch cooked by someone else and then whiling away the rest of the day with a newspaper and a searing cup of black coffee. Tonight, he was woken scarcely an hour later, the child making her displeasure known with the only weapon she had at her disposal: harsh, urgent cries. He groaned and glanced at Marisa, but she was still asleep, or faking it well – not that it mattered, because he knew that she deserved the rest more than he did. “Alright,” he murmured, slipping out of the bed and picking up the baby with a grumble. He paced for a little while until her cries became muffled fussing, but by then he was awake, and so he settled himself on the windowsill, drew back the curtain and looked out over his estate, the child still in his arms.

The rain had slowed to a drizzle and the clouds were clearing, a few strands of silver light just managing to peek through and shine down on the lawn, the grass glistening. His gaze roved over the woodland at the edge of his property, the few stars twinkling in the slim gaps between the clouds, the brook that babbled at the end of the manor’s garden. He spent so long staring at the landscape that he almost forgot he had a baby in his arms, and when he glanced down at her some minutes later, the sight of her wide-open eyes almost made him jump. No doubt they’d be blue in the light of day, but in the weak pearly light they glowed like two moonstones, and her pupils darted from his face to the window to Stelmaria, who’d padded over to join him, leaving the monkey dozing on the rug. After taking in her surroundings, those two big eyes found his face again, and for a moment he just stared at his daughter and she stared back, two people sizing each other up, both uncertain and curious in equal measure.

Stelmaria cleared her throat. “She needs a name.”

Asriel blinked. “Yes, I suppose she does.”

“You should do it. We know that she won’t.”

He nodded. He’d not given the child’s name a moment’s thought until now, and he cycled through family names as he stared out of the window again, before quickly deciding that he didn’t want to name his child after another, that he wanted to give her a name all her own. The clouds were drifting through the tempered sky as he deliberated, exposing fresh star clusters in turn; he noted Perseus first, then Cassiopeia, and the name sparked something within him. He looked down at his daughter and back at the stars, trying the name on his tongue. “Cassiopeia,” he murmured, but shook his head. Too elaborate and fanciful; the kind of name Marisa’s precious society friends would adore. He thought of other constellations: Aquila, Vulpecula, Phoenix, but none of them felt right. Then his eyes found a small square of stars next to a brilliant pinprick, Lyra’s fifth star incomparably bright. He beamed at his daughter. “Lyra,” he said. “Lyra. That should be her name.”

Stelmaria rubbed her head against the back of his hand, a show of pleasure. “He’ll be Pantalaimon,” she said, nodding at the tiny dæmon, who was wrapped around Lyra’s neck as an ermine.

Asriel frowned. “Really, Stelmaria? A saint’s name?”

“It’s what he wants,” she said, a soft edge to her voice, and Asriel understood.

“Alright. Pantalaimon, then. Lyra and Pantalaimon.”

A sudden gust of wind rattled the windowpane, and while he calmed Lyra with a single shush, Marisa was too far to reach. “Asriel?” she called out, too groggy to hide her distress. 

“I’m here,” he said smoothly, padding back to the bed, Stelmaria lifting the monkey onto the mattress in her mouth and settling both of them by the drawer.

He leaned back against his pillow, making no move to place the baby back in her blanket nest. “We should name her Lyra.”

“Fine.” She agreed so swiftly that she could hardly have processed the word, but that didn’t bother him, for he’d got what he wanted regardless.

“Her dæmon is Pantalaimon.”

Marisa glared at the golden monkey, as if he’d broken some unspoken agreement by participating. Stelmaria tightened her hold on him. “Fine,” she said again, her tone sharper.

A stillness came over the room, all six beings clustered on the bed, a raft in the storm. Marisa shifted closer to him and laid her head on his shoulder, and he deftly snaked one arm around her waist while holding the baby in the other.

“She looks like you,” Marisa said.

Asriel studied his daughter’s face, considering her nose, her chin, her sparse dark curls. “I suppose,” he said. He stroked Marisa’s hip through the robe. “The eyes are yours, though.”

She said nothing, and it took a minute for the true meaning of her words to become clear. “Oh. I see,” he said. A pause. “She’ll be a Belacqua, then. Lyra Belacqua.”

Marisa nodded. “It’s a good name,” she said quietly, the best she could offer.

When he next woke, a gentle rosy light was streaming through the slit in the curtains, and the occasional chirrup of a song thrush appeared on the wind. Marisa was already awake, and to his great surprise the baby was in her arms, latched to her breast and feeding hungrily, though the woman herself was staring blankly across the room. He rolled over, resting his cheek against her arm, stroking her thigh as the girl suckled, saying nothing, letting himself doze against her. Once the feed was over and she’d set Lyra back in the drawer, he’d hoped they would fall back to sleep, but instead Marisa shuffled into the bathroom. She returned a minute later with her clothes in her arms.

Asriel sat up, his drowsiness evaporating like the morning dew. “What are you doing?”

“I have to go,” she said. She wouldn’t meet his eyes.

Her face was pallid, she was limping, and two small, dark stains had appeared on the robe where her breasts were leaking. Her eyes were swollen, her nose a mottled pink. As she fetched a brush from her bag and attempted to tame her wild curls, he could see that her hands were shaking. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“The storm’s subsided, and Edward will no doubt be on the first airship back to London. He’ll be home by midday, I’m certain of it. I have to be there.” She put the brush away and glanced down at herself, stifling a gasp at the sight of the milk stains.

“You’re not going anywhere. You need to rest.”

“I can rest at home. Asriel, really, what do you think will happen if my husband gets back and I’m not there, and when I appear I’m neither pregnant nor with a child? The narrative legwork we already have to do here is tiresome enough. I won’t make my life any more difficult than it already is, and it _is –_ ” She winced then, one hand flying to her belly, and stifled a moan.

He glanced out of the window, at the sprawling grounds. “He’d never find you here,” he said quietly. “We’d have time to make a plan.”

“The only way I’m staying here is if you bind me to the bed and keep me as your captive.”

“Not your worst idea,” he said, and he saw her lip twitch, a pale spectre of a smile. Then he glanced at the baby and his faint amusement sloughed away. “This really changes nothing for you?”

Her hands clenched into fists. “How can you ask me that?” she said. “Don’t rewrite the past, Asriel. This child was a mistake, you know it as well as I do, simply the consequence of our recklessness and nothing more – and even so, out of the _goodness_ of my heart, I took care of her when no one else could. I carried her, didn’t I? I gave myself to her for almost a year, I pushed her from my body and now I’ve fed her from my breast. I’ve done _more_ than enough for her.” She was trembling, but her eyes were dark and fierce. “I will not give my life for her, Asriel. I will not give up my home and my ambitions and the life I’ve built for _her_ , when I’ve hardly had an opportunity to live myself. You don’t really want that for me, do you? For my mind to waste away just to nurture another, who may not be anything special, who may have little to offer the world? Certainly less than _us_.”

“Of course not. But – ”

She put her palm up to him, her face pale. “So you need to use all that money, all that _power_ , to solve this problem for us. That’s what I need from you, my darling. I need it. I _need_ it.”

She glanced at the baby. “Asriel, I want to be extraordinary,” she said, her voice thicker now, husky. “And there will be nothing extraordinary – about being her mother – ” She pressed her hands to her face.

He could never resist her when she was like this: defiant and ruthless and resolute. Indomitable. He leapt from the bed and kissed her, both hands clasping her tender cheeks, his lips crushed against hers, hard enough to bruise. He was probably being too rough, given her physical state, but if she wanted to pretend nothing had changed between them then he could too. She moaned a little, pleasure laced with pain, or perhaps the reverse, not that it mattered.

Battered by circumstance, though, their kiss could only stay brutal for so long. He loosened his grip and swiped his thumbs across her damp cheeks, she unbuttoned his shirt and placed her palms on his bare skin. Then Marisa pulled her lips from his and laid her head on his chest, her arms wrapped around his waist. He rested his chin on her head, closing his eyes as the familiar scent of her perfume wafted up from her crown and into his nose: bergamot, rose, a hint of neroli. Impossibly sweet. He pressed his lips to her hair and relished the feel of her warmth in his arms.

Their dæmons were clutching each other as tightly as Marisa and Asriel, the monkey’s face buried in Stelmaria’s soft white breast, his vicious hands tangled in her fur. “He doesn’t want to leave,” Asriel said, immediately ashamed of how pathetic he sounded.

Marisa sniffed. “He doesn’t know what’s good for him,” she said. “He never has.”

She pulled back and stared into Asriel’s eyes, stroking his cheek. “You knew this is how it was going to be.”

He looked at the baby. At their daughter. He thought of Marisa shaking in the tub, silent and sobbing, the girl on her chest. “I don’t think either of us knew how this was going to be,” he replied. She looked away.

Lyra hadn’t stirred once while they’d fought, nor while he helped Marisa dress; a vital skill for any child of theirs, he thought with a wry smile. Then he realised that it didn’t matter, because there was no reason to believe the three of them would ever be in the same room again. A bolt of cold pierced his chest. He looked at Marisa, beautiful even in distress, sliding her wedding ring back onto her finger, her dress puckered at the stomach, her body already starting to erase all evidence of the child they’d forged together. He felt his cheeks flush, his pulse quicken. He suddenly wanted to throw her out of his house.

“Let’s go, then,” he said, grabbing her bicep and shepherding her into the hallway. She gave the baby one more wretched glance, but didn’t protest.

They walked slowly down the stairs. “I’ll send a nurse to you later today,” Asriel said, as Marisa gripped the banister. “And I’ll make sure that she’s briefed, and discreet.”

“That’s not necessary,” she said, but her heart wasn’t in it.

“Yes, it is,” he said, and she nodded.

They stood in the entryway while they waited for Clarke to bring the car around, the door open, letting the fresh, fecund smell of petrichor into the lobby. Warm light was dappling through the windows, a few specks of dust twinkling in the creamy sunbeams, and he could hear more birds chirping now, a raucous dawn chorus. Marisa stood by the door, supporting herself on the wood, her hair gleaming in the golden light, her dæmon shimmering as if he were aflame. He wanted to stride over and shake her, to rattle her until she agreed to stay, to run away with him, until she agreed to board a zeppelin that afternoon, tiny creature in tow, knowing that they’d be on the continent by nightfall, North by tomorrow, or to the Indies or High Brasil or Abyssinia, wherever they desired. But he didn’t say any of that, because he knew now, more clearly than ever, that those visions were pure fantasy. Perhaps they always had been, more fool him.

In the end, knowing nothing about what would come next, he said the only thing of which he could be certain.

“I love you, Marisa.”

It was the wrong thing to say. She crumpled, almost doubled over, as if she’d been gutted. She covered her mouth with her palm, trying to smother her sobs. “I know,” she said, her voice splintering.

The sound of tyres rolling over pebbles drifted through the door a moment later. Marisa wiped her tears and prepared to sweep away from the manor, to ride his car home to London and then send it back empty, only her scent clinging to the leather seats. But as she stood in the doorway, golden light streaming past her, a cruel silhouette, she stopped, one hand resting on the rugged oak of the door.

“There is no one else on this Earth that I’d have wanted with me last night,” she said quietly. “Not a single soul. I couldn’t bear anyone else to see me like that. Anyone but you.” She let out a deep, shuddering breath. “Thank you.”

Then she strode out into the placid dawn before he could respond, and shut the door behind her with a thud.

Asriel stood there, head bowed, one hand on Stelmaria’s soft crown. Thoughts of Marisa forced out of his head as the whirr of the car faded into soundlessness, he turned instead to the expansive unknown that lay squirming up there, somehow more perilous than the coldest arctic winter, than the steepest, most jagged mountain coated in vivid blue ice. He considered the nurse that needed to be found, the cottage that needed to be prepared, the battlefield of a bathroom that needed to be cleaned. Thorold would need to be summoned, and the man would have to purchase a cot, milk powder, something for the child to wear. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, already exhausted.

The house was bloated with silence, the only sound his racing mind. Then the ragged wail of a baby pierced the air, her cries yearning and panicked. He stared up the ceiling. There was a baby up there, a real, screaming, writhing infant. A _baby._ With a start, he blinked, correcting himself.

 _Their_ baby. His daughter.

Lyra.

**Author's Note:**

> This was very sad to write! Bringing Lyra into the world together feels like such a painful, intimate, difficult thing for them to do, and just the thought of it makes my heart ache (it’s not canon by any means, but it’s also not _not_ canon). It would have been such an intense, emotional moment, and I wanted to explore that without losing their essences nor ignoring what comes next. I’m really proud of what I’ve written here - I think it’s one of my best. I’d love to know what you thought, or if you enjoyed it <3
> 
> You can also find me on tumblr, @jamlavender, chatting about the characters and my fics and HDM’s themes, and other good stuff like that. Come and say hello!


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